


What will happen, will happen

by Splatx



Series: what happens [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental Knotting, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Breeding, Breeding Kink, F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Knotting, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Reader-Insert, Unexpected Heat, Unsafe Sex, Wet & Messy, in heat, oversensitivity, sensitive, slick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25871038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splatx/pseuds/Splatx
Summary: You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a Heat - before everything had happened, before you’d been wrongfully arrested. They’d shoved suppressants down your throat in Sisika, and you’d been so malnourished on getting out that you hadn’t started up again. It was only recently that you’d been able to eat somewhat regularly, and you’d been intending on buying suppressants now that you could afford them, but it would seem that you were too late.
Relationships: Flaco Hernández/Reader
Series: what happens [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980802
Comments: 4
Kudos: 89





	What will happen, will happen

“You smell so good, _chica_ ,”

Flaco scared you awake. Not on purpose but, knowing him, he surely found the way you jolted, boot slamming into the wood of his cabin, rather amusing.

You stared at him for a long moment, wondering what had prompted him to say such a thing - not that you were complaining, exactly, you’d been gone on Flaco from the first time he’d told you to _“Stay warm”_ , and he wasn’t much one for compliments.

But waking up to someone telling you that you smell good? Yes, that is… rather startling.

Unless, of course, you’re an Omega.

Which you are.

Then it’s still _startling,_ but less so. Flaco was very much an Alpha and, though he’d never said a word, it didn’t escape you that his nose twitched when you were around - scenting the only Omega that came around, taking in the scents that still clung to you, horse and blood and deer and dog and all those other things.

Still, he’d always had the good graces not to say “you stink!” when you came back to collect your pay reeking of blood and horse sweat.

It’s rather sad, honestly, that a gunslinger is more polite than most ‘civilized’ Alphas.

You took one look at him, and your mouth went dry. He was sprawled leisurely in his chair, legs spread out and back arched just-so - and there was no denying the bulge in his pants. His eyes were gleaming a tell-tale red, and for a moment you took him to be deep in Rut, though he hadn’t smelled of it the night before, though it would make sense if he’d been trying to ‘court’ you to spend it with him in some strange way, inviting you to stay for the night instead of heading back into the storm as usual, until you felt the heat that _burned_ in your stomach.

Oh. _Oh_.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a Heat - before everything had happened, before you’d been wrongfully arrested. They’d shoved suppressants down your throat in Sisika, and you’d been so malnourished on getting out that you hadn’t started up again. It was only recently that you’d been able to eat somewhat regularly, and you’d been intending on buying suppressants now that you could afford them, but it would seem that you were too late.

Flames burned between your hips, roiling and burning, and your stomach _clenched_ as slick soaked your pants suddenly - oh, _oh!_ that hurt! It had been so long since you’d had a Heat, well over a year, your hand flew up to clutch your lower stomach, an agonized whine tearing from your throat.

Hands - warm, _warm_ hands - settled on your hips, and spice filled your nose. You leaned forward, burying your face in a jacket that smelled like deer-pelt, bringing your legs up to wrap them around Flaco’s hips. He rumbled, erection a hot length against your leg, and it took all you had to keep from squirming against him, not wanting to be dropped, and all the while slick dripped from your cunt, stomach cramping in waves. “Easy _chica,_ Flaco’s got you.”

He smelled _wonderful,_ spice and smoke and gun-smoke, and it soothed some of your pain, tamped the fire that raged, and so you clung to him as he strode to the small cot in the corner, barely big enough for a single person, much less a mating Alpha-Omega pair, rubbing your face against his chest, fumbling to undo the buttons of his jacket, rubbing the scent glands on your cheeks to leave your own scent behind, to mark him as _yours_.

You gasped as he flung you down on the bed, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs, and the intensity in his eyes kept you from getting it back. God, but he was looking at you like you were something. Like you were equals, or even more, as if you were something more than some two-bit outlaw and he weren’t a famous gunslinger. His scent was thick, heady, and you were choking on it, each breath of sheer _Alpha_ sending pulses through your cunt, slick soaking your pants. You needed, _god,_ but you needed him!

“Flaco,” you whined, and he grinned,

“Yes, _mi pequeño asesino?”_ he dropped his hand down to palm his bulge, and while at any other time (or maybe it wasn’t your Heat but it was _him_ ) it would have looked ridiculous, cheesy, it just looked _wonderful_ and you couldn’t look away.

You needed him in you an hour ago.

“Need you,” you beg again, tilting your head back and arching just so to bare your neck, everything in you screaming _‘mark me!’_ , your scent glands gleaming, and from the way he rumbles it doesn’t escape him.

Flaco drops to his knees at the end of the bed, licking his lips and drawing your attention to his mustache and oh, but that would feel _wonderful_ right where you need him, but you need to be _filled_ , need so badly it hurts, so badly it throbs and you can feel your walls contracting about nothing, and oh but you’re so _empty_ and it feels so _wrong,_ you gasp “Flaco, please, please,” and he rumbles “I’ve got you, _mi asesino,_ Flaco’s got you.”

He yanks your pants open, the buttons flying off to who-knows-where, peeling them off and snarling when slick gleams on your thighs, clinging in strands to your trousers when he pulls them off, too. “My good girl,” he purrs, “Flaco’s good girl,” he tosses them away into the corner, only luck keeping them from burning in the fireplace.

Flaco doesn’t hesitate to grip your hips and jerk them up, pressing his mouth to the heat that radiates off your cunt, and you arch your back, entire body like a live wire, unable to make a sound though your mouth opens in a silent scream. It hurts so good, and though his hands hold you in place your legs kick, heels desperately seeking purchase on the furs. It’s too much, and it _hurts_ , the scratching of his mustache too much on far-too-sensitive flesh. On any other day, even in another Heat, it would feel amazing, would probably bring you to completion, but this was your first Heat in near-gone a year, and everything felt turned up times ten.

“Flaco, Fl- Alpha, Alpha please, hurts, hurts,” and while he _is_ a gunslinger and an outlaw and not the softest of men, he _is_ an Alpha and not a horrible man, and flinches back, the lower half of his face soaked with your slick. “Too much,” you pant, and he moves to kneel, grabbing you by your thighs and scooting you up in a show of strength.

He kneels between your legs, and you move to curl up, to grab at his shirt and ground yourself, but his hands slam down on your shoulders and pin you, and oh but that’s wonderful, though this doesn’t feel quite right, you don’t feel right, you feel disoriented this isn’t _right_ , and though he growls “Easy Omega,” when you struggle he lets go, sits back and watches with the eyes of a starving man as you roll over onto your stomach, only grabbing onto you when you nearly roll off the small cot, clambering onto your hands and knees and dropping onto your elbows, crossing your arms to rest your forehead on them, arching your back and presenting.

From the sound Flaco makes, you do a damn find job of it.

_“Beautiful_ Omega,” he rumbles, grabbing your hips in his hands and spreading the lips of your cunt, wanting nothing more than to lick a stripe up it, taste the slick that stains your thighs and still yet drips from you, soaks the furs beneath you, but remembers the pained noise you had made earlier and contents himself with breathing deep, basking in the honeyed scent.

_“My_ beautiful Omega,” and god, yes, “Yours, yours, I’m yours Flaco, Alpha, you’re my Alpha I’m your Omega,” you stutter and stammer, the words flowing from your mouth without your control.

He leans up, licks down your spine, nibbles at some of the protruding knobs - he wants to feed you up, put weight on you so your bones don’t stick out half as much, so you’ll be able to provide for his pups and _okay stop that train of thought, Flaco, she is not your Mate this is an accident you are not breeding her._

But _god_ does he want to. Wants to knot you and sink his teeth into your bonding gland, shove you down and pull your hips up, knot you over and over and fill you with his seed until you’re sloppy with it, until there’s no way you’re not going to be heavy with his pups. But you’re his _pequeño asesino_ , his little killer, the Omega he sends out when he needs dirty work done, not his lover, not his Corazón, and you’d never be happy being kept in a cabin and rearing pups.

He reaches your neck, nips at your throat, allows himself to nibble at your bonding gland, purrs “Want to mate you, want to make you Flaco’s,” and you shudder, shake all over because _god,_ you want that so bad, want nothing more. Want him to pin you down, sink his teeth into your neck and take you, make you his, do whatever he wants with you.

You’re a gunslinger, an outlaw. It’s always you that has to be in control - for once, you want to let someone else be in control.

“Flaco, _please!”_ you beg, and he bares his teeth against your bonding gland, tightens his grip on your hips until they groan and it _hurts so good_ , but he’s as eager to fill you as you are to _be_ filled that he lets go, mounting you and thrusting, seating himself down to the soft skin of his knot-sheath in a single movement.

Your arms buckle, and a shrill sound that’s not quite scream but not a whine tears from your throat at the burning stretch, the sheer _pleasure_ , that tears through you, vision going white. His hands are warm on your shoulders, holding you still as he doesn’t give you a moment to adjust, beginning to fuck with a mindlessness that only an Alpha breeding an in-heat Omega can have, each thrust slamming his hips into yours and you know you’ll have bruises by the end of the night, and surely by the end of your Heat you won’t be able to walk at all.

The thought of having to rely on him is horribly appealing.

He thrusts _just so_ and you _scream_ , a high-pitched, animal sound that hurts your throat, seeing stars as your orgasm tears through you, his cockhead slamming into just the right spot. “Y-yes,” he snarls, “scream for me,” and adjusts himself, ramming into you hard enough that you have to brace yourself or risk braining yourself on your own arms, “scream for your Alpha!”

Flaco pauses, grabbing the back of your neck like you're a puppy, and wrenches it to the side, sinking his teeth in deep as close to your bonding gland as he can get without actually breaking it, snarling in your ear and jerking you back by his grip on your shoulders with each animalistic thrust of his hips, his panting loud in your ears.

With a snarl, he slams into you and holds you in place as the flesh at the base of his cock swells, not thinking before knotting you, moving to pull out at the last moment but by then he's well and good stuck, only able to tear a moan out of you, muttering _“Mierda,”_ as he tries a few more times, finally giving into his instincts and giving soft, little bucks of his hips, spilling deep into you, listening to your pitiful whimpers as you come again and again.

He releases his grip on your shoulder, licking it soothingly, and moves to wrap his arms around you, carefully shifting to lay down on his side, curling around you to try and keep from pulling on his knot as the two of you wait for it to go down.

Flaco nibbles at your ear as he rests a hand on your stomach - he didn't mean to knot you, but had become lost in the moment.

What will happen, it seems, will happen.


End file.
